Cigarettes
by the ticking clock
Summary: Lestrade is not John, but he is someone in Sherlock Holmes's life and that means something. Spoilers for The Empty Hearse.


**As soon as Sherlock said to Lestrade, "Those things will kill you, you know" I knew I HAD to write a fic about it. Here it is. Let me know what you think? **

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Sherlock can't lift his head, the whole world is spinning, but through slitted eyes he sees the guise of a man, arm stretched out towards him. He tries to form a response, but all that comes out of his mouth is a half hysterical laugh.

"Alright, kid, come on." Arms, hoisting him up, steadying him as he tips sideways, "easy mate, easy. What's your name?"

Sherlock blinks. Physical contact normally makes him uncomfortable, but this man's secure grip is oddly grounding. He is still dazed, his head a mess of screams and murders and lost cases, words that pound like poison, _freakfreakfreak. _His Mind Palace is in tatters, his hold of reality unsteady, his mind free and floating and untethered. But he is still Sherlock Holmes, so he says, "Wouldn't you like to know. I know all about you." The words come out slurred towards the end. His knees are shaking.

The man holding him laughs. "You're that kid that's been following my cases, aren't you?"

"Solving your cases."

"What?"

"Solving your cases, Detective Inspector." The world tips madly. Sherlock shakes his head, which doesn't really help, "you'll find the murderer on the second floor of-"

"Hey, easy," the DI quickly pulls Sherlock to the ground(had he been falling? It doesn't really matter now, does it?) "Jesus, kid, how much did you _take?" _

Sherlock's laughing. He's laughing because the ground is so very cold and yet he is so very warm and he is flying, flying so high that no words can touch him and his sense are sharpening and he is finally starting to understand-

"Hey, stay with me," The DI slaps his face lightly. "Come on, kid, focus. I have to get you out of here. What's your name?"

Sherlock didn't plan on telling him, but it is an automatic response, "Sherlock Holmes."

"I'm Greg Lestrade," Lestrade says, trying to make small talk(Oh, how Sherlock _hates _small talk) "Do you have any family I can call, now? Someone who can help you out?"

"I don't need help."

"You're high as a kite, mate. You're going to hurt yourself."

"I'm fine."

"Right." Lestrade shakes his head, a blur of silver and black to Sherlock's eyes. "Alright. Whatever you say. Let's get you out of here."

Sherlock looks up at him- a blur of lined faces, grim jawlines, hair shot through with gray and eyes that are so very tired. "Where are we going?"

Lestrade looks at him, slings Sherlock's arms along his shoulders and picks him up. "Home."

* * *

"Those things will kill you, you know."

Lestrade freezes. He knows that voice. But more than that, he knows those words. Knows all the times those were shouted out in frustration and love, how Sherlock would look at him with blown out pupils and unkept hair and smile that ghastly grin. Remembers all the time Mycroft had called Lestrade with warnings, and Lestrade had gone to pull a high, incoherent Sherlock off the streets for the hundredth time.

He remembers the light in Sherlock's eyes when he finally came down, the excitement that cases brought him, the joy of finding someone, finding _John-_

But Sherlock's dead. He can't be here. He can't be speaking-

And then he sees the eyes, the coat, the scarf, and Sherlock steps out of the shadows. He saying something that doesn't really matter except he messes up Lestrade's name, the _bastard, _but all Lestrade can do is stare, and stare because Sherlock is back and he's alive.

Finally Sherlock falls silent and just looks at him. His eyes are bloodshot and exhausted, aged in a way they hadn't been two years ago, and Lestrade wonders what could have possibly happened to him-this man who not so long ago was just a boy slumped over in an alleyway.

Before Sherlock can say another word Lestrade is hugging him, holding him hard, feeling the utter _realness _of him. This man who is both a friend and something of a son to him. This remarkable, brilliant man who has saved Lestrade's life in more ways than one, and who Lestrade has saved too.

Sherlock is smiling-Lestrade can feel it in the press of Sherlock's head against his shoulder and the hesitant pats he is receiving on the back.

The cigarette burns out against the ground next to them, smoke rising in hissing whispers, and Sherlock smirks. "Those things will kill you, you know." He says again.

Lestrade grins at him. Because this is what they share, he and Sherlock. Not crime scenes and death and endlessly unsolved cases waiting to be solved. They share _this: _nicotine patches, nights spent coming down from a high. They share cravings and wants and the curling rush of tobacco smoke. They share powders and syringes and hospitals and haunting night terrors. They share pain and torment and they went through it together and are still going through it together. Lestrade is not John, but he _is _someone in Sherlock Home's life and that _means something. _

"I know," He says, and stamps the rest of the cigarette out.


End file.
